


If I Have Given Offense

by pherede



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili commits a grave transgression, and by the ancient laws of the Dwarves he must be punished. Durincest, dubcon, bondage, humiliation, public sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Have Given Offense

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: this AU takes place after the successful Battle of Five Armies fails to kill any Durins, and Erebor is re-established.

It's all gone wrong; it was meant to be a prank. Thorin should have finished his audiences with a blue ribbon tied in his hair; he would have found it later, roared and stomped and glowered for a few hours, and forgotten.  
  
Now Kili is standing before his uncle with knees gone to jelly and one of his uncle's braids severed in his hand. The king's bodyguard are combing the throne-hall for the beads, each a precious token of the royal house of Erebor, which bounced away when Kili's hand slipped.  
  
"You took a knife to me in my own hall," says Thorin, and certainly his voice is angry; but Kili hears the horror in it, if the visiting dignitaries from the Iron Hills do not.  
  
Kili holds his hands out, palms up, displaying the knife and the braid like a dog showing his belly. "It was to cut the ribbon, Uncle, I would never have--"  
  
"You _intended_ ," Thorin cuts him off, "to play some childish prank despite your age, to demean your elder and your king, and in the process you approached my body with a bared blade and no challenge, and you _bearded_ me upon my grandfather's throne." Technically, Kili knows, his beard is intact; but cutting the hair of a king, he remembers from some distant childhood lesson, is punishable by death.  
  
Thorin wouldn't. Would he? Even if Dain himself were watching? Even if, and Kili realized the gravity of his error, Thorin were in talks with the tradition-bound elders of the Iron Hills for the food that Erebor and its neighbors sorely needed to survive the winter...   
  
"It was only a _joke_ ," says Kili in disbelief, glancing at Fili (who put him up to it in the first place, it isn't fair). "It was an accident!"  
  
Behind Thorin, Balin leans forward upon his seat, hesitates, and speaks: "My lord, he is your kin, and he has turned aside an orc blade for you; surely there is no need for harsh punishment."  
  
"Certainly not," puts in the eldest of the Iron Hills dwarves, and his fellows nod. "The valor of the sons of Dis is well-known to us, despite their... impetuous youth."   
  
Kili's shoulders sag with relief, but another elder adds, "Certainly the lad will benefit from a display of submission, though. He is _quite_ well-grown for such mischief."  
  
"Submission," says Thorin, and there is real dismay in his voice now. Balin nods, clearly relieved that Thorin will need to make no truly awful display of supremacy to maintain his allies' respect, but from the advisor's chair Balin can't see the weariness that floods Thorin's face.  
  
"There's got to be _some_ discipline," says the Iron Hills eldest, holding his beard-braids possessively, as if to guard them from marauding youngsters.   
  
Thorin settles back upon his throne, choosing his words. "You know the lads were not raised in proper Dwarven company," he says at last. "It will seem very harsh to him."  
  
"He's got to learn sometime," says the elder, and it seems that Kili's fate is decided. Balin is whispering to Dwalin, who stands behind him, and neither of them look particularly bothered; Fili mouths a word: _sorry_.  
  
Kili has no idea what's coming, but he hopes it's over fast.

"Strip," says Thorin, and the hardness of his voice reminds Kili that-- though Thorin was quite young at the fall of Erebor-- his uncle was raised in the high traditions of Dwarven culture, and though he seems to find this punishment distasteful he clearly does not think it too much for Kili to bear. Whatever it is; Kili peels off his armor with trepidation, anticipating a beating or a branding. Perhaps Balin and Dwalin might not think this punishment worth worrying about; but that does nothing to ease Kili's spirit.  
  
"He'll need to choose a second," chimes in the elder, in a tone that suggested he only means to make things easier on Kili.  
  
Kili speaks immediately: "I choose my brother."  
  
Thorin frowns. "You have no idea what you'll be asking him to do, lad."  
  
"Will it hurt him?"  
  
Rubbing his brow, Thorin sighs. "Not really. Though he may hurt you."  
  
"Then I choose my brother," Kili repeats, tilting his chin defiantly, and Fili stomps up from beside the throne to stand at his brother's side, fierce as a lion.  
  
His uncle gives him a dark look, then glances at the elders and raises his eyes. "Very well; _strip_."  
  
Kili does, and Fili helps him, undoing buckles and helping him pull off his boots. When Kili is down to his breeches he looks at his uncle, and Thorin gestures at him: the rest must go too.  
  
Soon Kili is naked before the small court: Balin and Dwalin, the dignitaries of the Iron Hills, his brother and uncle, two or three blacksmith-lords recently raised to the nobility upon their return from exile. His flesh is goose-pimpled from the chill of the mountain air, and he shivers; Fili takes his hand, as if they are very young dwarflings, and Kili straightens his spine to accept his punishment.  
  
"Kili, sister-son, as a public admonishment, as an example before my subjects, and as an apology for your grave insult;" Thorin speaks now as a king, and his brow is stern; "you will submit yourself to me before my court, in body as in spirit; and when I have taken my pleasure from you, you will go in peace, and remember your place."  
  
 _Taken his pleasure_. Kili goes hot and then cold all over. He's heard about the strange sexual mores of the ancient dwarves, but he grew up in the towns of men, and it's _wrong_ \-- it's _impossible_ \--  
  
"Fili," says Thorin, his voice full of reticence and discomfort and a wretched, quashed interest: "Prepare your brother."  
  
They look at each other, brother and brother; then Fili replies without taking his eyes off Kili, "Prepare?"  
  
"Open him up," says one of the elders, impatiently, and he nods to one of his fellows, who retrieves a vial of leather-oil and tosses it to Fili. "Stretch him out, so he's not injured. You don't have to take all day about it, boy."  
  
Slowly Kili turns himself, shoulders slumped, feeling numb all over; Fili uncorks the vial and the smell of paraffin fills the room. Kili looks back at him and sees his brother spilling the oil over his fingers, staring at the mess with shaking horror; and then Fili throws the whole thing on the floor, and with undisguised loathing he snarls: "This is _vile_ , uncle, you cannot be serious--"  
  
Dwalin throws himself down the dais and has Fili in a headlock before either of the brothers can so much as move. "You'll respect your king," he says.  
  
Fili fights him tooth and nail, and Kili stands aghast; does Fili really think he can save his brother from the entire weight of dwarven history and law? More importantly, does he really think he can best Dwalin, who has brawled with orcs in Moria in the dark for longer than they've been alive put together?  
  
But Fili puts up a brave effort, and in the end Dwalin subdues him, and lashes him with thongs that the elder's men pass him, until Fili is lying in a heap with his arms bound behind him and his mouth full of cloth to stop his screaming. He watches Kili, his eyes wild, panting; and this makes it even worse, that Fili is so angry on his behalf, that Kili can't even pretend it will be a small and meaningless thing.

Kili makes no sound as he kneels, as Dwalin pushes him to the floor with his rear thrust in the air. He wants to protest his virginity, his innocence, his disbelief; but none of these things matters now, does it, and soon he'll be no virgin, with no ceremony and no meaning, a small punishment. He looks at Fili, turning his head, holding eye contact, and when Dwalin scoops up the oil-- now cold from the stone-- and smears it down the cleft of his buttocks, it is Fili who moans in despair around his gag.  
  
Dwalin is fast and rough; scarcely has Kili's arsehole recovered from the startling pressure of intrusion than Dwalin is working a second finger into him. The stretch is awful, and burns, and Kili cries out at last, and Fili's muffled voice joins him.   
  
Upon his throne, Thorin shifts, and Kili wonders if he is unsettled, if he is nauseated, if he feels the stirrings of desire, if he will take real pleasure in this or if he will feel as sick afterward-- Kili discovers that he can't think about _afterward_ any more than he can think about what is happening to him now, the terrible invasion, the look on Fili's face as tears streak across the stone under him and pool along his nose.  
  
It's only a minute or two before Dwalin's rough ministrations cease, and Kili is hauled to his feet. He staggers toward Thorin's throne with his arsehole twitching, eyes locked to the floor; he can feel every eye in the room upon him, strangers and friends, dwarves he has fought alongside and dwarves he would gladly punch in the eye.   
  
He knows this is meant to humiliate him, to demonstrate his powerlessness; but he wonders if any ancient dwarf has felt the shame, the violation, the shuddering horror that he feels now, if it would have been easier had he been raised to it.  
  
And now he stands before the throne, and Thorin is undoing his laces, and Dwalin is hauling Fili upright so that he will be forced to watch-- _you're still his second, lad_ \-- and Kili feels something awful in himself, some strange deep despairing twitch; and as Thorin pulls his cock free (and it is, astoundingly, hard and ready for him) Kili swallows hard, letting himself be turned and bent. He locks eyes with Fili, and he can feel a rictus of terrible overwhelming panic spread across his face as he is breached; but he holds his brother's eyes, and Thorin waits a moment once he is filled, and warmth begins slowly to spread through Kili's abdomen, fluttering tingling heat.  
  
He does not want to enjoy it. But here, like this, helpless and full, watching Fili's eyes widen and then flick aside with shame, understanding that his debased body is a source of conflict and arousal to both his king and his brother... Kili knows what _submission_ means, and he is doing it, and he fears it more than he has feared anything in his life.

Closing his eyes tight, Kili feels tears soaking his eyelashes. He's been prepared, but he knows it wasn't quite enough; nothing could have ever prepared him for this, for being bent over his uncle's lap-- supporting his weight by his hands on Thorin's knees-- with his belly full of his uncle's cock, and for all the people watching it happen. He twitches around the mass of it; his mouth falls open as cramps rack his body.  
  
And oh, sublime horror: Thorin groans.  
  
It is no groan of shame, or of disappointment. Thorin has his cock buried in a virgin body, tight and spasming around his length; he is aroused, he is _enjoying_ the sensation. Somehow this makes it even worse-- one less Durin who regrets what is happening to Kili.  
  
The most awful thing is that, as Thorin rolls his hips up and pulls them back, some treacherous part of Kili's body responds to it. He feels himself reddening, and he know it must be obvious, for the elders of the Iron Hills nod and murmur to each other, noting how powerful and virile the King Under the Mountain must be, to have such an effect. "A strong king," one is saying; "not one I should like to offend."  
  
A strange resolution floods Kili. If his virginity and dignity are the price for a winter's bread and meat, for the survival of Laketown and the Lonely Mountain, Kili decides he can take this; he can be proud of this. Although it's difficult to be proud as his eyes fall back to Fili, who is suffering so greatly on his behalf, who watches him with desperate fervor, as if he thinks he can switch souls with Kili and bear this for him instead.  
  
It's far, far too late for that. Thorin finds a rhythm and thrusts up into his body, hot and thick; and Kili is crushed with shame as his own cock hardens in response, as whimpers and moans begin to escape him, as Fili knits his brow. It feels _good_ , and Kili wishes he had known this friction and fullness before, in some context where twenty pairs of eyes are not skewering him. He wants to make sense of this in private, to curl up safe with his brother and lean against him and wonder aloud what fundamental change is happening in his body. Fili would understand; Fili would take this slowly.  
  
Is he wishing, Kili suspects with dawning horror, that his brother was in Thorin's place?  
  
The thought evaporates as Thorin picks up the pace, thrusting into him with vicious abandon, until he feels raw and stretched past his capacity, until the pleasure begins to be overwhelmed by the pain; Kili cries out and arches, stiffening his thighs and rocking forward, trying to find some relief from the pain even as he struggles to hold himself still, to let this happen, to be the coin that buys Erebor's bread.  
  
Thorin takes him by the hair at the back of his head. "Will you not submit?"  
  
"I will," gasps Kili, "I swear I will, but I haven't-- I don't--" He's terrified, he wants to say; he hurts, and awfully he _wants_ , and Fili is groaning through his gag and writhing at his bonds.  
  
Bonds, thinks Kili, and sees his way to self-control. "Please," he gasps, "bind my arms, tie me down," and Thorin groans deeper and hammers him for a half-minute while Kili wails and begs; his body falls against Thorin's thighs as his hands lose their control and push and claw for freedom.  
  
It's apparently enough to convince Thorin; the king pauses, giving Kili a moment's repriece, and then Dwalin is tying him, crossing his arms behind his back and kneeling to lash his ankles together, adding a touch more oil to slide down the cleft of Kili's arse.   
  
It was a good idea, Kili realizes, now that he is forced to lie against his uncle's thighs, helplessly dangling; it means that when Thorin continues fucking him, he can only sob, only buck a little, and not really struggle. The pain is still there, if diminished by the oil; but the helplessness, the knowledge that he has surrendered himself and nothing can rescue him until Thorin has had his fill and spills himself inside Kili, is a low-burning knowledge that sets a dark pulse to pounding in Kili's groin.

In this manner he is despoiled, sometimes pulled half-upright for Thorin to fuck up into him, sometimes lying across Thorin's knees while Thorin pounds him. The sensation is overwhelming, horrible and pleasurable, and he moans and twists, slowly realizing that if Thorin doesn't spend soon, _Kili_ will, and he doesn't think he can bear that thought.  
  
Fili watches him with rapt and tear-stained eyes, and Kili watches as Fili begins to rut slowly, unconsciously, against the stone steps. One less Durin to mourn his loss, Kili thinks, and then knows that even he himself is not on his own side any more, that he chose the leather straps that bind his arms and ankles, that he is accepting the cock that splits him open.  
  
That the sight of Fili, himself bound and gagged, thrusting in helpless lust and rage against the stone floor of the throne hall, is so inflaming and delicious that Kili can feel heat coiling up tense in his body, that he is in a space beyond pain where every thrust that violates his body makes him spasm with liquid need. He is floating, serene and lost, even as his body tightens and his breathing turns to ragged gasps and he feels himself about to come; he is not a person any more, only a mass of nerves.   
  
This is how he comes, moaning Fili's name, writhing in his bonds and spilling until nothing is left, and all the while fucked open by Thorin's merciless cock. He is not quite finished coming when he sees through half-lidded eyes that Fili has gone rigid and is coming too, with a series of heartfelt anguish. Their eyes do not leave each other, from the first quivering gasps of inevitability to the final convulsions of orgasm, and when Kili finally relaxes and Fili falls limp upon the floor, Thorin shouts and fills him with his own seed.  
  
They lie like this for a while: Fili gasping in his shame of the floor, Kili shuddering and weeping softly, and Thorin victorious in his gambit for Dain's respect. And he has won their respect; as soon as Thorin pulls out, wipes himself with the cloth Dwalin hands him, pushes Kili down the dais to untie his brother with shaking hands, they begin peaceable trade topics. Kili, released at last, wipes sweat and tears from his body with shaking hands, unties Fili's bonds.  
  
Then the two brothers help each other, support each other, as they flee the throne room; at first Kili flinches from his brother's touch, fearing judgement, but soon (when they are safe at last in their quarters, alone) Kili remembers that this is his brother, and Fili would do anything for his sake.  
  
And if, in a century or so, Fili is fated to be King Under the Mountain, and subject his own kin to such humiliations; if Kili will be his closest kin, and the courtier with the sharpest tongue, and certain to require displays of submission from time to time; tonight they do not speak about this, and Kili mourns the loss of his virginity and his innocence alike, and quietly they rock together in the newborn knowledge of their own desires and the things that have poisoned them forever, and now bind them together sure as the straps that held their wrists.


End file.
